


To Thine Own Self

by Lempo Soi (Lemposoi)



Category: Green Hornet (2011)
Genre: 1970s, Closeted Character, Community: kink_bingo, Consent Play, Dubious Consent, Latino Character, M/M, POV Third Person, Past Tense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-12
Updated: 2011-05-12
Packaged: 2017-10-19 14:08:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/201709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lemposoi/pseuds/Lempo%20Soi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mike and Jim, then and now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Thine Own Self

**Author's Note:**

> I added both "consent play" and "dubious consent" in the tags but no "non-con" archive warning because the characters are employing a meta-consent scenario, but it's not immediately apparent.
> 
> Also contains: Internalized homophobia, homophobic language, Jim Reid being intensely unpleasant, and vague allusion to 60s rape-romanticism.
> 
> As usual, I had no beta, so C&C, including nitpicking, would be welcome and appreciated.

1973

It was almost 7:30pm. Mike smoothed the sheets over with some haste. They were never all that neat anyway, and Jim would only see them if he actually came to the door. It should be fine.

He headed out of his small bedroom to the kitchen cabinet and the fancy new coffee machine – much too glossy for an apartment where the wallpaper hadn't been changed since the 50s – just as Jim clambered into the foyer and called his name.

"I'm here," Mike called quietly, knowing he'd be heard. Jim was one of the few people who never asked him to speak up. He took down the can of coffee and unscrewed the lid. Still a few spoonfuls left.

"You shouldn't have left so early," Jim said, coming into the apartment proper out of the small closet of a hallway. The double doors to the kitchen were open wide. "You're my chief reporter, I need you there."

Mike didn't reply, but smiled at him from the counter, or smiled as much as he had energy for this late in the day, especially with the satisfaction in his loins still pulling him towards sleep.

"Put that away," Jim said, pointing at the coffee tin. "I've had enough to keep me up all week. The Sunday edition is ready, in case you're interested. Unless they start a new war tonight, the paper's good to go." Jim stretched and yawned, his fists reaching up towards the low roof. Mike screwed the coffee tin lid back in slowly, admiring him.

Jim wasn't beautiful. His arms and legs seemed too long for the rest of him, his chest a funny kind of a barrel shape that still failed to make him look formidable. If there was anything intimidating about Jim's physique other than the simple fact of his height, it was in the configuration of his face - the eloquent brows, the twist of his mouth - and most of all, his voice.

Jim could stop you on your tracks with that voice. It was a trick Mike was learning, too. He knew he spoke softly. It didn't matter. The trick was in what to say, and with what infliction.

"Saw your trick on his way out," Jim said as he opened the cabinet and rummaged for a drink. "He looked tidier than your usual type."

Mike said nothing. Jim emerged from the cabinet with a bottle of scotch, giving Mike a very specific, familiar grin. He didn't mind, of course he didn't mind, why would he mind? He just wouldn't forget, either. Mike leaned on the kitchen counter and allowed himself to be looked at. Jim's gaze lingered on his tank top, his overgrown hair, the cross hanging from his neck, and his hands stuffed in the pockets of his conservative trousers.

Jim was straight, Mike was queer. That was how Jim wanted it read, defined. It didn't matter who they dated or who they brought back to the apartment. That was how it was, and Jim would punch anyone who said different.

"These days, swear to God, it's like it's a crime to be clean-cut," Jim said at last, pouring himself a glass. "You start to think maybe the boys with short hair are the queer ones, overcompensating for something, you know? That kid looked like he'd just walked off a conservative youth newscast."

"Does that mean you're finally going to grow you hair out?"

"Hell no." Jim barked a laugh, grinning from ear to ear. Funny-looking or not, Mike thought he was the most desirable man he'd ever seen.

That crush was on its last leg. Mike knew that, but sometimes it still flared up feeling so fresh it was almost enough to make him forget.

They'd been boys together working on the campus paper and they were young men now, with a small-circulation baby that had come to consume Jim, and very nearly Mike, too – the Daily Sentinel. Where it was going, they still didn't know, but it was going somewhere. The paper had a personality. It wasn't frivolous. Jim made sure of that. They never shirked from issues. It had a conservative bent, but the liberal view was always presented strongly for balance - it was Mike who made sure of that. It was that interplay that made the Sentinel special – that, and the lurid crime stories. They weren't naïve. People wanted heroes and villains. It worked whether you wrote about crime or politics. No confusing shades of grey, just a good goddamn story.

Confusion, in any case, was usually just the result of missing pieces in a continuum. Trace every step of a story, and it all starts to make sense. Remove the intervening steps, and any result will begin to look contradictory or random.

Jim put the glass down and wiped his mouth. He wasn't affected in the slightest – it was all just routine by now. Their eyes locked. Jim crossed the kitchen in two long strides and grabbed Mike's head, kissing him hard.

Mike opened his mouth obediently and let Jim shove his tongue in, hard and cruel. Jim grabbed Mike's ass and lifted him on the counter, banging his head against the cabinet in the process.

Mike let it happen, like he always did. He grabbed the edge of the counter. He wasn't allowed to touch, not without being asked.

"Come on, you little faggot," Jim growled, took Mike's wrist and shoved his palm against his own trousers. Mike quickly undid Jim's belt and unbuttoned him, reaching in to massage his cock.

Jim held his face with both hands and continued to kiss him, sloppy, but softer now. Mike moved with it, did what he could to make it feel like a caress. The first time Jim had first done that, they had already been fucking for months.

"Suck me off," Jim commanded, gasping the words out, as he grew hard in Mike's hand. "Unless your throat's too sore from that boy-whore from before?" He pulled away and backed up, wiping his mouth again. "On second thought, in the bedroom. Here." He backed off to his own tiny closet of a bedroom. Mike followed.

Jim sat down on his narrow bed, tugging his trousers open all the way. "You want it?" he asked, holding his dick on offer. It poked pink out of his fly. "Sure you do."

"Jim," Mike said, hovering at the door.

He wasn't sure what he wanted to say. _Jim, you could be a little nicer sometimes, would that kill you? Jim, you're queer too. We don't have to go through this every time. Jim, I know you're scared. It's okay. I won't betray you. You won't betray me. I know._

"Don't make me come and get you," Jim snapped.

Mike never did. He came to Jim, crawled between his legs and took his cock in his mouth. Jim's fists bunched in the militarily neat bedding.

Mike was gentle. Mike was thorough. He massaged Jim, licked him, teased him. He opened his throat and let Jim slip in, held him in and listened to his breathing, just on the edge of sound.

Jim's palm pressed on the back of Mike's head, tangling with his curls.

"Enough," Jim said in a broken voice and pulled Mike's mouth off his cock. He threw him on the floor and Mike ended up scrambling on to his elbows. Jim was on him within seconds, pinning him down and turning him around.

"Who was on top, huh?" Jim demanded as he undid Mike's belt. "Are you going to be all loosey-goosey for me tonight?"

"Jim, don't," Mike said in a resigned voice.

"Don't make a scene, Mike. You know I can't handle that at the end of the day."

 _You used to be able to,_ Mike thought. _You used to love it when I fight you, whether you get your way in the end or not. Maybe it's just me who's stopped fighting back?_

Mike gritted his teeth as Jim pulled his pants down and shoved a finger roughly in his ass.

"Big boy, was he?" Jim said as he sank his index finger in deeper, then forced in another one. "Jesus, you're still moist. Is it him or is it butter, or whatever you guys are using these days?"

"Does it matter?"

"I guess not."

Mike hissed as Jim shoved his dick inside him.

Despite everything, Mike loved this. His body contracted around Jim and his cock jumped at the pure sweetness of it. There was an inexplicable joy here, of being filled and fucked. He wouldn't trade it for the world. He wouldn't trade it for a chance to be straight.

Jim. His genius son of a bitch. Jim grabbed his hair again as he pumped in and out, the sound breaking through now, grunts and then moans, like pain.

What Jim wanted was to make sure everybody involved – which was the two of them – knew that Jim was straight, and Mike was queer. By some weird logic this meant Jim fucked Mike. Mike didn't fuck Jim. Mike would do whatever Jim said. Somehow, that kept Jim safe. It protected him from something too terrible to name.

Mike almost didn't mind, because beyond all the shit the world throws at you, there was still love.

Even still.

Even as the crush faded.

Jim came within minutes, wrapped around Mike, his fingers digging into Mike's hips. He fell gasping against his back.

The game was done. They were okay. Mike rested his hand over Jim's and their fingers threaded together.

Jim pulled out and turned him over, and Mike settled down in his lap on the floor, limbs stretching out and wrapping around each other. Jim's lips brushed against his neck. "Sorry," he said quietly, sighing against Mike's shoulder.

"Then make it up to me."

Jim slipped a hand under Mike's tanktop, and began to make love to him with his hands.

*

2010

"Wait up."

Mike stopped at the door and let go of the knob, turning back towards the office. Jim stood leaning on the desk, slightly slumped, looking at the floor. "It stops tonight," he muttered.

"What does?" Mike frowned.

Jim pulled himself up – pulled himself together, really, collecting all his parts and focusing them on a single point. He gave Mike a sharp look and a grin. "Come here."

Mike wandered across the room with his customary unhurried walk. "Come here, damn you," Jim said, waving his hand in an inviting movement. Mike gave him a warning half-smile and continued at his own damn pace.

"How long has it been?" Jim asked, smiling down at him, when he reached him.

"Forty-five years." Mike grinned.

"Forty-five fucking years," Jim said in a wondering voice. He reached out for Mike's face.

Mike almost jumped back in shock, but then Jim was kissing him for the first time in decades. It was little more than a soft touch of lips on lips.

"Always loved you, you know," Jim said when he pulled back.

Mike stood frozen in place. He was an old man, but there was nothing worn-down about the feeling that wound through him now, a shiver of sensuality almost like first love. "You too, you son of a bitch," he managed.

"See you tomorrow," Jim said, leaving him with another quick peck and heading out the door. "I have a column to write."

Two days later, Jim was dead.


End file.
